


Unavoidable

by shamebucket



Category: Room No. 9 (Visual Novel)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bleak, Dehumanization, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Offscreen rape, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamebucket/pseuds/shamebucket
Summary: Originally written for GAME OVER. Post Ending A.





	Unavoidable

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the free zine GAME OVER. Check it out [here!](https://issuu.com/hanazonocollab/docs/game_over_collab)

Deep inside, I must have always been like this. 

I tell myself that as I see one of my students cringe as she sits down. I recognize that expression. It's one I made myself many times, or at least I think I did. It's hard to say anymore. I was always trash, and that's why I have trouble remembering the past sometimes. Yeah. That's it. There's no use in remembering things if everything stays the same. 

\- But, I remember that face. Looking at myself in the mirror after my dad caught me being a spoiled brat, getting into shit and bothering him when he was drunk, trying to play games with the empty beer cans on the floor. One time, when he was careless, he gave me a black eye, and I remember looking at my face - my gritted teeth, my empty eyes. No point in crying. Nobody is going to save me. Whoever is doing her over is way more careful than my dad was, but the damage is the same. I never see a spark in my eyes when I shave, one of the few times I bother looking at myself anymore. What's the point, when nothing ever changes? The only difference is some days my stubble is thicker than others, and sometimes the bruises are fresher. 

I frown in what I convince myself is annoyance. She doesn't deserve special treatment for any of that. I had to grow up and become strong by myself. Either she's going to learn to do the same thing, or she's going to stay weak and it'll just get worse for her. There are days when I wonder why I even bothered becoming an elementary school teacher to begin with, when I have to see stuff like this all the time. I see her struggling to act normal, like nothing is happening at home, and I pretend that I don't know exactly what she's doing. Today is one of those days. And, at times, it seems like this entire year is one of those days.

~*~

Nothing's really changed this past year. There's the surface-level stuff, like graduation and getting real, adult jobs, but everything is more or less the same as it was when we woke up in my apartment. A year ago, I was a university student, and now I'm a teacher, but everything's the same otherwise. I remember thinking that we were still trapped in that room, and I guess we still are. Although after a while, what was originally a prison can seem like home. Almost. Not that I really ever had a good idea of what "home" was. Whatever. I've lived through worse.

We don't live together. We don't exchange pleasantries. Having him around me is comforting in the same way that coming home and hearing my mom cry in the other room was comforting. At least everything is the same. At least I know what I can expect tomorrow. 

All the same, I feel... agitated. 

I think about the last time I saw him, last week. In the park, like we always meet when it's nice out. He has keys to my place, but he doesn't see me at home most of the time. The weather is starting to change, so I might need to start thinking about making my cramped apartment more suitable for... certain things. I guess I should be grateful that we don't need a lot of space for what we do in our spare time. 

(There's a part of my brain that has a startling clarity at times. It doesn't work very often, but when it does, it says things that surprise me. I wonder, that part of my brain thinks, if his place is bigger than mine. I never asked if he moved out of his parents' house.)

I shake my head. That doesn't mean anything. Even though he belongs to me, everything that he does in his spare time is his own business. I don't want or need to know about any feelings he might have, what life he's leading. It doesn't matter. All that matters is the stark reality of flesh, entwined and red, swelling, swollen. In the end, he's still just an object. He can pretend to be human, but we both know that he isn't.

~*~

It's raining. He shows up at my place, early, like he does on the weekends where it rains too hard to do what we normally do outside. I don't know if these days are a blessing or a curse. At least it allows me to have him only to myself.

I'd compare him to a wet dog, but I'd probably feel more sympathy for a dog than I do for him. His bangs stick to his forehead, and his eyes are low, staring at the floor. He's got a bag with him. Takeout. I'm not sure why he does this on the days where we're alone. Maybe he thinks that I might pretend he's a person if he tries to appease me. He should really know better by now. He should know what I need. 

As soon as he closes the door behind him, I grip onto his cardigan and throw him onto my futon. The takeout spills on the floor. I'll make him clean it up later. He lets out a startled groan as I drag him and he physically crumples, becoming as limp and lifeless as a doll. After realizing that I don't have plans to hit him, he looks up at me, his eyes empty. The same emptiness I have seen in the mirror so many times. 

(There was a time when there was light in our eyes. I think, anyway. A time where I might have laughed and begged for him to spoon-feed me the food he bought while he sighed, something between mild annoyance and resignation. I would have gotten drunk and said words I've told him many times before and he would stay sober and shake his head. Was I happy back then? Something inside me is screaming. I tell it to shut up.) 

I grasp his hair and he flinches. Not even the rain can wash away the stench of cigarettes. I hate it, I think to myself as I crush my mouth on his, lacking any finesse or kindness. Desperately, he tries kissing me back, moaning as he weakly holds onto me. He's trembling, from excitement, I'm sure. There's no other reason a man so much stronger than me would be shaking. It's like he's asking for it. He always asks for it. The room made us this way. There's only one thing I can do in this situation. 

I give it to him.

~*~

It's still raining when it's over and we're dressed.

"Daichi." I'm surprised to hear my name. I can't remember the last time he called me anything, mostly referring to me with gestures if he needed to at all. Most of our meetings require little conversation. His gaze is vacant as he stares at the food on the floor, forgotten for the past several minutes. "I'm... sorry about the mess." That's the most he's said to me in months. I'm not sure what to say. I don't know if there is anything to say. I lean against the wall and watch him clean up the mess that is completely his fault. 

"It's a waste," I say without thinking as he stands, his hands filled with the haphazardly refilled containers of food. He tilts his head at me. The most infuriating thing is that I think it's a little bit cute. (A part of me wants to say his name, but I can't. As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't have one anymore.) "All of that. Wasted." I sound angrier than I actually am. 

Seiji closes his eyes and sighs regretfully, throwing it away. "I'll be more careful in the future. I am truly sorry." 

(Despite everything, he's still in there, still acting like the man I grew up with. Polite and responsible. My heart warms over at the familiarity and freezes in despair at the same time, but only for an instant before everything goes numb.) "Better be, or there will be consequences." He flinches, and then nods minutely. For a second, I think he's searching me for something. Not sure what. What you see is what you get with me. He doesn't find it. Even more defeated than he was previously, he holds onto his arm and gives the door a sidelong glance. He knows better than to ask to leave. I'm not done with him yet. 

I don't know what he expected. This was the only way things could have ended. He knew my father, and he knows that abuse begets abuse. I fought it at first, but it was useless, and the room showed me that. He had it coming. 

I had it coming.


End file.
